by Kati Wilde
“Mrs. Mitchell retired two years ago, I’m afraid. But I can make certain to pass on her contact information.”
“That’d be good. Yeah.” Caleb abruptly frowns. “Hold up. Are all of the employees being kicked out when the Wyndhams are?”
“No, sir. I’m pleased to report that this has become a very merry season for us, indeed—and will be even merrier in two weeks. We are employed by the estate, not by Mrs. Sylvia or her children, so we retain our positions until Mrs. Eleanor’s will is settled.”
When most of them should be able to retire, because Eleanor had been gracious enough to gift each member of the staff a substantial sum and establish a pension. But while the Wyndhams contest the will, their future remains uncertain.
“Mr. Ferry,” I ask him, “have the Wyndhams indicated that they’ll honor Eleanor’s gifts to the staff if the will is invalidated?”
He smiles thinly. “Mrs. Sylvia is of the opinion that, since the staff will still be needed when she and her children inherit the estate, we shouldn’t be given incentive to retire so young or require such a large pension when we do eventually leave.”
No wonder Ferry was so pleased to see Caleb, then. And Caleb appears pissed off by that revelation—angered by the injustice done to the staff, not just driven by spite and hatred.
And it’s just another reason that I keep falling deeper and deeper in love with him.
“Change of plan,” he says in a low voice to me as Mr. Ferry opens the drawing room door and announces us. “I don’t burn it down. I let the employees do it—with the Wyndhams still inside.”
“The staff will receive their gifts and pensions when we win,” I remind him, my gaze skimming the large room as we enter. It’s a rather small and quiet engagement party. Only the Wyndhams themselves seem to be here—Sylvia, the new matriarch, and her children Christopher and Meredith—along with an all-too familiar couple seated on a blue sofa.
Ice splinters through my gut. My fingers convulsively tighten on Caleb’s.
“Caleb,” I whisper through stiff lips. My entire face feels frozen. “I need you to stay right by my side. And don’t let anyone touch me.”
He abruptly stops, ignoring Christopher’s greeting as the man approaches us. Frowning, he asks quietly, “What is it?”
I’m on the verge of hyperventilating, yet I can barely manage the breath to answer. “My parents.”
10
Audrey
Caleb’s face darkens and he throws a dangerous glance in my parents’ direction. “Those two are?”
“Yes.” I can hear the high-pitched panic in my voice. “We can’t stay long. I don’t want to stay long.”
“Fuck this, then. We’ll go now.”
“No.” I stop him as he pivots toward the door. “Let’s say what we came here to say. Just…be with me.”
“I will.” He presses a warm kiss to my palm before turning to Christopher—who resembles Caleb in his coloring and the overall shape of his features, yet without any of the fascinating rough edges and irregularities. “You invited those assholes?”
Christopher doesn’t even blink. With a smooth smile he replies, “Yes, of course. An engagement party should include the families of the happy couple, shouldn’t it? We all wish to offer our congratulations.”
“Sure you do,” Caleb tells him, then looks to Mr. Ferry. “Congratulations will go over better when my fiancée has a glass of champagne. Will you please see that she gets one?”
“Right away, sir.”
Warmth fills me, melting some of the ice. Caleb knows I rarely drink alcohol. So he must have noticed the trick I’ve been using in public to escape touching and too many handshakes—by holding a glass in my free hand while I hold on to him with the other.
I love him so much.
I cling to that love as tightly as I cling to his hand as we walk farther into the drawing room, fighting to keep my gaze away from my parents. It’s hard. Because they’re so wrong here. They’re so wrong anywhere. And I’m not looking at them but they’re all I can see.
Everyone stands at our approach. Before we reach the group, Mr. Ferry returns carrying a silver tray topped by a single glass, which I gratefully take. But it might not have mattered anyway. Bristling with anger, Caleb doesn’t bother to shake hands, either. Introductions go around but I barely hear them. Only his replies. I focus on the sound of his deep voice so I don’t drown in the bloody wound that ripped open in my chest when I saw my parents.
The wound was only a scar before. A scar that ached now and then—especially after I met Caleb, as if to remind me of the damage that can be done when your heart is open and vulnerable to someone.
Caleb will be more careful with me, though. Even when our marriage ends, I believe he’ll take better care with my heart than my parents did, because he’s a rough man but also a good one. The wound might be deep and bloody, but not delivered cruelly or thoughtlessly—and I’m walking into our marriage with my eyes open, knowing it’ll end. I’m choosing the eventual wound over never having him at all.
My parents, though…I could have done without them.
We’re invited to sit. Caleb escorts me to a love seat adjacent to my parents’ sofa, then sits forward slightly on the cushion, as if using his big body to shield me from their sight—or to block them from mine. Whatever his intention, having them out of view helps me begin to relax and listen to what the others are saying.
In an elegant Chanel suit and pearls, Sylvia graces a wingback chair positioned to preside over the conversation. Yet Christopher does most of the talking, seated on the sofa across from us with Meredith at his side. I can imagine what the Wyndhams think of my attitude thus far—and my icy silence—but I don’t care. They had to know I’ve shut my parents out of my life, because it’s common gossip in these circles, yet my parents were invited anyway. Which tells me the Wyndhams wanted to knock me off-kilter. Well, they managed that. Point to them. But it’s the only point they’ll get.
Christopher offers another smile, just as smooth as before but tinged now with melancholy. “Tonight we celebrate a happy occasion, yet we must acknowledge the tragic event which truly brought us together. I’m only sorry we couldn’t have done this before my grandmother’s passing.”
Meredith chimes in, “I believe that it would please her very much to know that we have all come together now.”
“Yes, it would,” Christopher agrees solemnly. “And it is our hope that—in the healing spirit of the season—we might repair the rifts that have estranged us…and make apologies that are long overdue.”
Both Meredith and Christopher turn to Sylvia, who wears a delicately earnest expression. To Caleb, she says in remorseful tones, “To properly apologize, I must first explain how terribly shocked and grieved we were when we lost Robert so suddenly. He came along much later than I did, you see. I was already married and with Meredith on the way when my mother gave birth to him. And so Robert was not like a sibling to me at all, but another son.”
“And an older brother to Christopher and me,” Meredith adds with a soft, nostalgic smile.
“So when Robert’s yacht sank”—Sylvia’s voice quavers—“we were simply devastated. And in the rage and denial of our grief, I regret that we closed our minds and our hearts to your mother’s truth. Because with one look at you, there is no denying your parentage. I know that this apology should have been made to her. I honestly can’t say what prevented us from doing it. Cowardice, perhaps. Or a stubborn unwillingness to revisit our loss and pain, and to never consider what we might gain by welcoming you both into our family. Perhaps fear, too—fear that she would never forgive our overreaction.”
Throughout this speech, Caleb’s fingers slowly tighten on mine. Angry? Affected? I can’t tell. But I hope he isn’t falling for this manipulative hogwash. Because I can usually spot a gimmick, and they are pushing their grief harder than any used car salesman ever pushed a lemon. The only thing their rehearsed apology lacks is a solitary tear rolling down Sylvia’s ch
eek.
Oh oh!—and there it goes. Her lips trembling and her eyes shimmering, Sylvia turns her face away, as if overcome by emotion.
If my parents weren’t here, this might be fun.
Christopher picks up the script from there. “So we hope, Caleb, that we might put the past behind us and welcome you into our family as we ought to have done so many years ago.”
“In the healing spirit of the season?” Caleb responds, and I still can’t read him.
“Exactly.”
With a nod, Caleb turns to address my parents. “And you have an apology, too?”
I stiffen beside him. Whatever they feel sorry about, I don’t care to hear it.
But apparently the Wyndhams didn’t tell my parents that apologies were on tonight’s agenda or give them time to prepare. A few moments of silence pass before my mother’s stammering, “Well, ah… Of course.”
Without even seeing them, I know exactly what’s happening now. My mother glances at my father in a wordless plea for help. My father would rather eat rusty nails than apologize for anything, so he leaves it to her to handle such a troublesome matter.
For many years, I was the troublesome matter that he left to my mother. And even after decades of him continually denying her pleas for help, she still looks to him first. Perhaps hoping this will be the day he gives her the love and support she so desperately needs. For the longest time, I gave her mine—or I tried to. Because what I had to give certainly wasn’t what my mother needed from me.
Now I’ve got nothing left. Except this raw wound in my chest.
And Caleb, so warm and strong beside me, holding my hand and silently offering his protection. He has no use for my love, either—he’s only marrying me for spite and sex. Yet I think we have become friends, too. And simply being next to him softens the wound enough that I can listen without running away to hide from the pain.
Haltingly, my mother begins, “I suppose…that we were also guilty of overreacting. Or I was. Your father was…”
She hesitates over what he was, so I suggest flatly, “Weak.”
“Audrey!” she gasps, as she always does whenever I speak too bluntly. She gasped often while I was growing up.
I try again. “Selfish?”
“Of course not. You know your father is a very generous man.”
Only if generosity is defined by how much money someone gives. “Indifferent, then.”
“No,” she denies emphatically. “He was not to blame. That’s all I meant to say. And that I was unprepared for a child like you were, Audrey. I was unprepared for your screaming or your tantrums—or how cold you were.”
“Catherine, my dear,” my father interrupts tightly. “Perhaps you and Audrey should take this discussion to another room.”
“Oh, should we?” I shift forward to look past the shield Caleb made of his body. My father’s expression is taut and remote, his posture clearly of a man in extreme discomfort, while my mother’s face is flushed with emotion and effort. I got my pale coloring from him and my facial features from her, but in every other way, I can’t see myself in them at all. “Is that so you won’t have to listen to all these troublesome matters? Or is it because you don’t care for the Wyndhams to hear? Are you embarrassed for them to know you had such a difficult and emotional child? I am not embarrassed by it because I don’t care what they think.”
“Perhaps you don’t care that this is making them uncomfortable, either.”
“Not really. Though I suspect you’re the only one who’s uncomfortable, Father, because the Wyndhams are probably delighted by this little drama.”
“Of course not,” Meredith protests softly, her eyes wide as she follows our every word.
A muscle works in my father’s jaw. “I simply do not think this is the time or the place.”
“And yet our hosts have explained that this was the purpose of being here—to air old grievances and make new apologies. So go on, Mother. I would like to hear how you were unprepared for such a cold child. Because as I recall, I constantly told you that I loved you.” Especially after I was old enough to understand how much she needed it. But it still wasn’t enough.
“Simply saying it means nothing, Audrey. You must show it.” Her gaze darts to my father’s face as if hoping that her words will sink in with him, too, but he’s already locked down, staring straight ahead and waiting for this to be over. Bitterness creeps into her voice when she looks to me again. “You said you loved me, but you could not even bring yourself to hug me, or display any sort of affection that children typically show their mothers.”
“I showed you affection,” I tell her. “Because I loved you more than anyone and I was desperate for your approval. But you never recognized what I was giving.”
“Perhaps that is true—and perhaps, if you will give us the chance, I can learn to recognize it now.” Her gaze falls to my hand, still clasped in Caleb’s. “Or perhaps in these past years, you’ve learned to show more affection than before.”
“No, I haven’t.” Easily touching anyone in the way she means will never be something I can learn. “But I have learned to give my affection to people who are more deserving.”
Her gaze darts to Caleb and rare fury flares through my blood, because I know exactly what rushes through her mind during that brief look—wondering how a rough bastard like Caleb could possibly be more deserving of love than someone like the delicate, beautiful, well-bred creature that she is.
Yet because she’s such a well-bred creature, she will only think it and never say it. Instead she continues, “I am encouraged by your acknowledging that you were a difficult and emotional child. Just as I acknowledge that I did…overreact. And you were perhaps right to be angry with us. With me. But now that you are beyond your youthful rage, you can look back with the wisdom of maturity and have compassion for a young mother who was simply overwhelmed—and see that I did my best. And considering all that you’ve achieved in recent years, it’s evident that no lasting harm was done. So perhaps you might put aside your anger now, and forgive me for being so young and unprepared, so that we might be a family again.”
My anger? I was never angry. I was hurt and afraid.
I wish that I’d been angry. Like Caleb is at the Wyndhams. I wish resentment burned so deep that I could take pleasure in spite and revenge. Instead I’ve simply been afraid that they’ll hurt me again.
Not anymore, though. Because I realize they can’t hurt me more than they already have. They’ve done their worst—or at least, they’ve done the worst that I’ll allow them to do—and I survived. And I will never give them an opportunity to touch Caleb or show him any more of the disdain that my mother just did.
So now I’m just…finished with them.
“I have plenty of compassion for young, overwhelmed mothers who receive no support from their partners. Yet I also have very little sympathy for women who are cruel to their children, no matter the reason—or for weak and selfish men who leave their wives to it,” I tell them, before saying as plainly as I can, “I have no interest in renewing our relationship—ever. You are my parents but you are not my family. And after this evening, I hope to never see either of you again.”
Outrage suffuses my father’s face. But he leaves this to my mother, too. Her features pinched with bitterness, she looks to Caleb. “I cannot congratulate you on your engagement to our daughter. Instead I offer my condolences for the cold life you’ll soon lead. You’ve secured yourself a rich, beautiful wife who will never be able to show you love and affection, and who will be impossible to love in return.” She casts a sour look at my father, who’s getting to his feet, before adding to Caleb, “But no doubt you’ll find warmth elsewhere, as men so often do.”
“Nah, I won’t. And as far as I’m concerned, you can shove your condolences so far up your ass that they’ll pop out your mouth again. But they’ll probably still be covered in the same amount of shit.”
Perhaps my mother meant her final remark as a partin
g shot, but Caleb’s response brings both my parents to a stunned halt. They stare at him, disbelieving.
I squeeze his hand in gratitude for not letting her have the last word. But he’s not done.
“Your daughter loves what she does and pursues what makes her happy. The people around Audrey are happy to know her, too—and it doesn’t have a fucking thing to do with her money, and everything to do with who she is. That doesn’t sound like a cold life to me, and she doesn’t sound like a woman who has no love and affection to give.” His voice sharpens to a razor’s edge. “What it sounds like is that you need Audrey’s life to be all about you, to make you feel good about yourself. Luckily, the rest of us who know her aren’t as fucking needy as you are.”
Gaping at him, my mother begins to shake her head, to say, “I have never in my life—”
“That’s enough, Catherine.” My father grips her arm and steers her toward the door, with my mother still denying and gasping and gaping. “Sylvia, Christopher, Meredith—until next time.”
He doesn’t acknowledge me as they leave, which is a relief, because my throat is a knot of overwhelming emotion after hearing Caleb’s speech. No one ever has understood me so perfectly.
I pursue what makes me happy. And he makes me happy. If Caleb hadn’t proposed to me, I’d be pursuing him even now. He said that he wasn’t sorry for using the gimmick, because if he hadn’t we wouldn’t be here. But maybe we would have been. Because after our initial meeting, I’d have gone after him. Asked him out for dinner—and probably to my bed. Surely he wouldn’t have waited for a wedding night then, just as he didn’t wait with anyone else he wasn’t marrying. And perhaps we would have gotten to know each other in this same way.
Aside from sex, however, skipping straight to a marriage engagement has proved a much more efficient way of getting to know him. And makes me even happier than merely dating him could have.
“All right, then,” he says, facing the Wyndhams again. “Two apologies in the bag. So I guess that means it’s my turn.”